Ian Rankin - Dead Souls

‘Nothing since then?’

‘No.’

‘How up to date is that?’

‘Up to the close of play yesterday.’

‘Could I ask you a favour, sir? I’d like tabs kept on that account. Any new withdrawals, I’d like to know about them pronto.’

‘I’d need that in writing, Inspector. And I’d probably also need the approval of my head office.’

‘I’d appreciate it, Mr Brayne.’

‘It’s Bain,’ the bank manager said coldly, putting down the phone.

Rebus called the building society and endured the same rigmarole before learning that Damon hadn’t touched his account in more than a fortnight. He made one last call to Gayfield police station and asked for DC Hawes. She didn’t sound too thrilled when he identified himself.

‘What’s the word on Gaitano’s?’ he asked.

‘Everyone calls it Guiser’s. Pretty choice establishment. Two stabbings last year, one in the club itself, one in the alley out back. Been quieter this year, which is probably down to a stricter door policy.’

‘You mean bigger bouncers.’

‘Front-of-house managers, if you please. Locals still complain about the noise at chucking-out time.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘Charles Mackenzie, nicknamed “Charmer”.’

A couple of uniforms had talked to Mackenzie about Damon Mee, and he’d offered up the security tape which had languished in Gayfield ever since.

‘Know how many MisPers there are every year?’ Hawes said with a sigh.

‘You told me.’

‘Then you should know that if there’s no suspicion of foul play, they’re not exactly a white-hot priority. God knows there are times I’ve felt like doing a runner myself.’

Rebus thought of his night-time car-rides, long, directionless hours, just filling in the blank spaces of his life. ‘Haven’t we all?’ he said.

‘Look, I know you’re doing this as a favour...’

‘Yes?’

‘But we’ve done all we can, haven’t we?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘So what’s the point?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Rebus could have told her that it had to do with the past, with some debt he felt he owed to Janice Playfair and Barney Mee — and to the memory of a friend he’d once had called Mitch. Somehow, he didn’t think explaining it to an outsider would help. ‘One last thing,’ he asked instead. ‘Did you get me a still of that woman?’

Gaitano’s was little more than a solid black door with a neon sign above it, flanked either side by pubs and with a hi-fi shop across the road. There were valve amplifiers and an outsized record deck in the shop window. The deck had an outsized price-tag to match. One of the pubs was called The Headless Coachman. It had changed its name a couple of years back and was touting for tourists.

Rebus pushed the door-buzzer to Gaitano’s and a woman opened it for him. She was the cleaner, and Rebus didn’t envy her the job. Glasses had been cleared from the tables, but the place still looked like a wreck. There was an industrial vacuum cleaner on the carpet which encircled the dance floor. The floor was littered with cigarette stubs, cellophane, the occasional empty bottle. She’d finished cleaning the foyer, but was only halfway through the main dance area. There were mirrors on all the walls, and in the right light the place would look many times its actual size. In bare white light and with no music, no punters, it looked and felt desolate. There was a fug of stale sweat and beer in the air. Rebus saw a security camera in one corner and gave it a wave.

‘Inspector Rebus.’

The man walking towards him across the dancefloor was about five feet four inches and as thin as a swizzle-stick. Rebus placed him in his mid-fifties. He wore a powder-blue suit and open-necked white shirt to show off his suntan and gold jewellery. His hair was silver and thinning, but as well-cut as the suit. They shook hands.

‘Do you want a drink?’

He was leading Rebus towards the bar. Rebus looked at the row of optics.

‘No thank you, sir.’

Charmer Mackenzie went behind the bar and poured himself a cola.

‘Sure?’ he said.

‘Same as you’re having,’ Rebus said. He examined one of the bar stools for cigarette ash, then pulled himself up on to it. They faced one another across the bar.

‘Not your normal tipple?’ Mackenzie guessed. ‘In my trade, you get a nose for these things.’ And he tapped his nose for effect. ‘The kid hasn’t turned up then?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Sometimes they get a notion...’ He shrugged, dismissing the foibles of a generation.

‘I’ve got a photograph.’ Rebus reached into his pocket, handed it over. ‘The missing person is second row.’

Mackenzie nodded, not really interested.

‘See just behind him?’

‘Is that his doll?’

‘Do you know her?’

Mackenzie snorted. ‘Wish I did.’

‘You haven’t seen her before?’

‘Picture’s not the best, but I don’t think so.’

‘What time do the staff clock on?’

‘Not till tonight.’

Rebus took the photo back, put it in his pocket.

‘Any chance of getting my video back?’ Mackenzie asked.

‘Why?’

‘Those things cost money. Overheads, that’s what can cripple a business like this, Inspector.’

Rebus wondered how he’d merited the nickname ‘Charmer’. He had all the charm of sandpaper. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we, Mr Mackenzie?’ he said, getting to his feet.

Back at the office, he played the tape again, watching the blonde. The way her head was angled, strong jawline, mouth open slightly. Could she be saying something to Damon? A minute later, he was gone. Had she said she’d meet him somewhere? After he’d gone, she’d stayed at the bar, ordering a drink for herself. At dead on midnight, fifteen minutes after Damon had vanished, she’d left the nightclub. The final shot was from a camera mounted on the club’s exterior wall. It showed her turning left along Rose Street, watched by a few drunks who were trying to get into Gaitano’s.

Someone put their head round the door and told him he had a call. It was Mairie Henderson.

‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ he said.

‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’

‘Quite the reverse.’

‘In that case, lunch is on me. I’m in the Engine Shed.’

‘How convenient.’ Rebus smiled: the Engine Shed was just behind St Leonard’s. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘Make it two, or all the meatballs will have gone.’

Which was a joke of sorts, in that there was no meat in the meatballs. They were savoury balls of mushroom and chickpea with a tomato sauce. Though a one-minute walk from his office, Rebus had never eaten in the Engine Shed. Everything about it was too healthy, too nutritious. The drink of the day was organic apple juice, and smoking was strictly forbidden. He knew it was run by some sort of charity, and staffed by people who needed a job more than most. Typical of Mairie to choose it for a meeting. She was seated by a window, and Rebus joined her with his tray.

‘You look well,’ he said.

‘It’s all this salad.’ She nodded towards her plate.

‘Lifestyle still suit you?’

He meant her decision to quit the local daily paper and go freelance. They’d helped one another out on occasion, but Rebus was aware he owed her more brownie points than she owed him. Her face was all clean, sharp lines, her eyes quick and dark. She’d restyled her hair to early Cilia Black. On the table beside her sat her notebook and cellphone.

‘I get the occasional story picked up by the London papers. Then my old paper has to run its own version the next day.’

‘That must annoy them.’

She beamed. ‘Have to let them know what they’re missing.’